


Pas De Deux

by deduce-my-heart (linds7)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Alternate Universe, BAMF!John, Erotic dancing, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, John Has a Beard, Johnlock - Freeform, Love at First Sight, M/M, Masturbation, Military Kink, POV John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, Slow Burn, TAKE ME TO CHURCH, Tattoo!lock, Voyeurism, ballet!lock, balletlock, dance kink, dark and depressing thoughts, freebeard, hehe, inspired by the video, john is naughty, memories of war, sergei polunin, sherlock is also naughty, tattoolock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-25
Updated: 2015-06-01
Packaged: 2018-03-14 23:23:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3429317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linds7/pseuds/deduce-my-heart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A danseur and a soldier, both hiding from the world, have a chance encounter in the country.<br/>They are never the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [IamJohnLocked4life](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IamJohnLocked4life/gifts).



> This fic is deeply inspired by the music video [Take Me To Church](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c-tW0CkvdDI) by Hozier and danced to by Sergei Polunin. There would not be a fic without it in fact. PLEASE DROP WHAT YOU ARE DOING AND GO WATCH IT FIRST! :D
> 
> A HUGE THANKS to my beautiful beta [iamjohnlocked4life](http://iamjohnlocked4life.tumblr.com/). Naomi, your constant encouragement and love, as well as your sweet spirit have inspired me to do this. Because of you, I believe that I can. I dedicate this, my first real fic (with chapters and everything haha) to you.
> 
> (Also, I made a couple of small changes since she looked at it, so any mistakes are ALL MINE.) hehe

_“I let them lose. Lose themselves in their own fantasies of what they want me to be. A rebel. An angel. A romantic. A heart breaker. A child. A man. Perhaps I am all of these things. Perhaps I’m none. But what I am is for me to find out.”_

**_–Sergei Polunin_ **

 

* * *

 

The silence was deafening. And glorious. He was finally alone. Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief and started to do his warm ups and breathing exercises. His body immediately became more relaxed and loose. He was in a small, partially constructed country church abandoned in the middle of nowhere, left unfinished years ago. The sanctuary had nothing in it, not even stained glass windows. Nothing but wooden walls, floors, and arches to separate him from the outside. A cool breeze continually caressed his bare skin as he moved, and it felt quite pleasant. He could even smell a hint of lilac in the air, and his dark mood lifted a bit. This was going to be perfect.

He had chosen this location in the country to rehearse precisely for its solitude. And for its anonymity. The small rectory nearby was vacant, and it took him no time at all to jimmy the lock open. Apart from the alarming amount of dust (which to be honest, bothered him not at all), the small bed and sparse furnishings were quite sufficient for his needs. As long as he wasn’t bothered, he could almost be happy. Distractions were his enemy, people an ever source of annoyance. Alone is what he had. Alone protected him. Now he could focus on what was most important. And when Sherlock danced, nothing and no one else mattered.

The floor trembled with each light step, the large room echoed each breath, each pant held back and tamed, as sweat glistened on Sherlock’s skin and in droplets on the floor. His body moved with the grace of a panther and an angel combined. He had no wings, yet he spent an amazing amount of time in the air, ever practicing his jetés, gracefully leaping higher and higher each time, his landings flawless and sure. He floated and danced back and forth across the sanctuary as if it were built just for him.

He was a danseur, the best in his field and principal dancer in the British Royal Ballet, a position of honour much coveted by his rivals.

But now he was here, hidden and blessedly _alone_. The relief Sherlock felt was palpable. In all his 25 years, he had never truly had a vacation or even a break from all the responsibilities involved with his high profile career. It consumed him and there was no rest. Even during his precious free time, he was often sought after and consulted for advice on his technique, of which he gave sparingly. No one listened anyway; it was all very tedious: “Sherlock, tell us, how have you become so great?” And another, “Sherlock, what must I do to dance like you?” And even, “WHAT IS YOUR SECRET?” He always returned their ridiculous questions with one of his own, and they inevitably walked away unsatisfied, “Are you willing to give your life, your heart, and if it existed, your very soul, to ballet? If not, then don’t even bother.”

Sherlock was a rising star and becoming quite famous. No one else had ever managed to perform with such speed and grace that Sherlock had mastered through endless hard work and years of practice. His dedication and sacrifice were unmatched. He had forsaken everything, even abstaining from certain foods that he loved. He was also training his body to need sleep less and less.

And of course, sex was out of the question, as was any kind of relationship or sentiment that could weaken his concentration. He needed his strength, all of it, to continue the work, the all-important performance _._

_Performance_. Sherlock couldn’t help but roll his eyes.

Though he worked so hard and tirelessly, he cared not for the accolade or the fame. He did not dance for _others_. He loved nothing more than to dance alone and with no fanfare. The dance itself brought him pleasure. Ballet was his life, his one love, and he hated sharing it with strangers.

Unfortunately for Sherlock, absolutely no one else saw it that way. His gift was meant to be shared, to be fawned over and watched. There were at all times huge amounts of pressure on him to rise above all others, to preserve the name of _Holmes_ as unmatched. It was the family’s legacy, passed on from generation to generation. His family—and brother in particular—would accept no less from him. He simply had no choice but to be the best.

Left to grow up in indifferent ballet and gymnast boarding schools ever since he was six, Sherlock learned from a young age that he was all alone, and that his worth came from how well he performed that day. Fellow students, cruel to a fault, were quick to ridicule any tiny mistake. The headmasters with their cold, impassive eyes, pushed relentlessly for him to give it all, everything he had, to become pristine. A vision. A living, breathing work of art.

_Untouchable._

And that is what he had become. But he cared not. He danced for himself now, in this moment. Far from the maddening crowd and their hideous expectations, he indulged, allowed himself to enjoy the dance for its own sake and no other. For several hours, he put out of his mind the tedious dance routines that he knew by heart and all the demanding voices drilling the exact movements and steps he should be making. His body was finding its own rhythm, its own sensual voice. He was fully engrossed in his mind, a palace he called it, barely opening his eyes, no longer aware of his surroundings. He did not realise his body had started to thrust with a need long held at bay, how even now he was on the floor, undulating in a manner most unprofessional. He was not conscious of how his soul had become bare, his body trying with all its might to exorcise the demons of pain and heartbreak lingering in his subconscious like a cancer.

He was becoming undone yet more alive than ever. A passion had taken hold of him, transforming him into something new. Time was forgotten, lost as he was to this primitive dance from his soul.

And had he not let his guard down and been so inwardly focused, so abandoned to these foreign sensations, he would have immediately noticed the face gazing at him with fascination through the open window.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked the first chapter!! Let me know your thoughts! :D My goal is to publish a chapter a week, and I will try very hard to stick to that. (I don't think there will be more than 8-10 chapters all together.)
> 
> I am also on tumblr! [deduce-my-heart](http://deduce-my-heart.tumblr.com/)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John watches Sherlock....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to my sweetheart [iamjohnlocked4life](http://iamjohnlocked4life.tumblr.com/) for being a wonderful beta!!!
> 
> I hope you enjoy this as much as I enjoyed writing it... ;-)

_“There is no sweeter innocence than our gentle sin.”_

**_\--Hozier_ **

 

 

If anyone had asked John whether or not he ever dabbled into voyeurism, if he ever got off on secretly watching someone, he would have given them a resounding NO. (The very idea!) He was a man of principle, of honour. Respected by his peers and colleagues, he was not one to be trifled with. And he _certainly_ didn’t go around getting off by looking at things he shouldn’t be while the subject was unaware. Never in his life had he even been tempted to, in fact.

Yet here he was: standing outside a window, steadfastly looking in at the lone occupant inside.

He had noticed a flash of movement as he was innocently walking by, and fatal curiosity had drawn him closer. John was instantly enthralled. Without realising it, he was now leaning in, drinking in the sensual sight before his eyes like a man dying of thirst. His gaze was quickly turning into something closer to desire, while said occupant was momentarily (and uncharacteristically) oblivious.

Captain John Watson of the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers, talented surgeon, lethal soldier and most recently _Voyeur_ , was also becoming quite aroused.

There was a man, a very tall man, wearing only a pair of torn, nude tights that only just reached above his knees. If their purpose was to modestly cover him, they failed miserably.  John felt as though he were watching him move about with nothing on at all, on display in his most basic and human state.

John simply couldn’t tear his eyes away.

He was slender yet obviously strong and extremely fit. John couldn’t believe the effortless way the man could support his whole weight on one hand, or one toe, defying gravity with every bend and twirl. John supposed there wasn’t an ounce of fat anywhere on his figure.

The mysterious dancer was also covered with tattoos. John found himself desperately wanting to have a closer look, to study the ink on that pale skin and even trace it with his hands. There were a few tantalising tattoos partially covered by those damn tights, and John suddenly needed to know exactly how far down they went. Even as he was considering this, the man began to grab at a small tattoo on his arm, clawing at it as though he meant to rip it off. John peered closer, there was a name there … Vic … something, he couldn’t quite make it out.

The doctor in John wondered briefly if the man was actually in physical pain, the way his face was contorting in a look of agony, his sweat soaked body seemingly desperate for something, relief of some kind as it stretched and bent itself in ways John knew most bodies were incapable of doing without breaking.

Dark brown curls damp with sweat clung loosely around his face, and he was dancing in a way John had never seen before. It looked like a form of ballet, the way the man was often moving on the balls of his feet—not that John knew much about that, never having been to a ballet before in his life—but this dance was more primal, more erotic than anything he ever saw in passing on the telly.

This was something dark. And it positively oozed of sex. John’s breath hitched as a dull alarm sounded somewhere inside his brain, calling attention to the dangerous territory his thoughts were hopelessly sinking into. He licked his lips unconsciously as he looked on, thoughts of walking away still not entering into his mind. He could not turn away now, even if his life depended on it.

The very moment he had taken one glance inside that church, it was all over. The spell had been cast. Cupid’s arrow had pierced his heart, and John was lost.

John was unprepared, unarmed, and completely helpless against the visual onslaught. If this had been a physical battle, he would be covered in his own blood by now, sinking to the ground in defeat and death, not even knowing what hit him. John had never been so aroused, so seduced in his life.

He could have no idea that this moment would change everything.

If anyone who knew him could see John now, making love to a man with his eyes through a window, they would have been quite surprised. (Well, perhaps not his sister. Harry knew that deep down her brother had a wild streak that he always suppressed, probably because she let hers out so much.)

Suddenly the dancing stopped.

The man now lay on the floor, eyes closed and panting from exertion.

_Oh god he was so delectable. So fucking beautiful._

The way that taut stomach rose and fell. If only John could have one taste. Lick one little drop of sweat currently making its way down that chest just begging for attention.

Just as John was contemplating the brilliant idea of crawling in through the window and doing just that, those eyes opened and the man sat up.

It was like a (much needed) splash of cold water. John immediately came to his senses and dove to the side of the window, suddenly terrified that he might have been seen.

_Shit. Shit shit SHIT._

John clasped his hand against his mouth, realising he was breathing quite heavily, quite _loudly_. He could hear nothing from inside, no movement whatsoever. Was he still sitting in that same spot? Was he looking towards his direction?

What a complete idiot he was! John couldn’t believe himself as he thought back over the last … 5 … 20 minutes? Oh god he didn’t even know! He had wasted all that time gaping at the man, lost in his own lust, when he should have been kindly moving along, preferably _without being seen_. Bloody hell.

What chance did John have now, with all these open windows? And why the fuck were there so many windows anyway?! John began to feel desperate, his heart racing.

He stayed there against the side of the building for what seemed like an eternity. Still nothing.

Ok … what now? John felt trapped. He would most certainly be seen if he tried to make a break for it. And he couldn’t just live here now, his body plastered against the stupid building like a nutter.

After many more moments passed and with great hesitation, John finally mustered up the courage to peek inside again, full of dread to meet the man’s eyes directly. To his immense relief, he was still on the floor, apparently doing some cooling down stretches. And he looked completely focused on it. Now was his chance to escape!

But before he turned away for the last time, John couldn’t help just one more look of longing as he again felt that intense (and now familiar) pull of desire.

John finally shook his head and ripped his face away from the window. He marched himself swiftly down the dirt lane, turned towards his little cottage sitting on a distant hill, and never looked back.

It wasn’t until he was home safely, calming himself down with a cup of tea, that he realised he had left his cane outside that window.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's backstory (and he discovers John has been spying on him!!!) *^_^*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really long chapter ahead! (compared to the other two) This is now the longest thing I've ever written... haha go me ;-)
> 
> Thanks again to my wonderful beta iamjohnlocked4life...seriously, I couldn't do it without her!
> 
> I hope you like it!! Thanks for reading and please let me know what you think!! :D
> 
> As always, any mistakes are mine.

_"I don’t want to be a man. I want to be an angst-ridden teenager who can't confront his own inner demons and takes it out verbally on other people instead."_

**— Cassandra Clare (City of Ashes)**

 

Slowly, quietly, Sherlock’s pulse returned to normal, even as his muscles began to softly burn. His body felt lethargic now as he came back to himself. God, that had felt exquisite. He had let himself go, let passion overtake his body. He could not remember the last time he had indulged himself, allowed himself to simply _be_ , without any guise or act. He wasn’t exactly sure what form his private dance had taken, but he didn’t care. It made him feel so alive, leaving him with a general sense of soaring.

And of falling.

Sherlock closed his eyes and breathed deeply. Stretching his limbs out in all directions, he simply basked in the lingering sensations that still coursed through him. He couldn’t help but smile, something rare for him. That had felt better than a full body massage.

Sherlock’s mind, for a short, blessed moment in time, was quiet. But all good things must end, and eventually he bounded to his feet with a graceful flourish, unconscious of how fluid his movements were even when not dancing. Rolling his shoulders and stretching his arms above his head, he sauntered over to the window and hopped up on the windowsill. Propping one leg up and hugging it to himself, he watched the sun hanging low over the horizon. _Interesting._ It was late afternoon already. He had been dancing longer than he had realised.

Sherlock gazed out at the horizon, a faraway expression clouding his features. A heaviness was creeping over him, as familiar to him as his own face, and it rested on his shoulders and squeezed at his heart. Outwardly, nothing had changed. He looked relaxed, quiet, but his mind was alert now and anything but peaceful.

Far beyond the gentle hills and pastures that surrounded him, was a threat that not even this tranquil scene could erase from Sherlock’s mind. He was going to have to come up with a plan of action, and soon, if he didn’t want to have even more freedoms taken away from him. As it was, his brother kept a close, suffocating eye on his every step. And that was before _it_ had happened. He would become unbearable now. Sherlock sighed heavily, closing his eyes. He thought back over the events from the last few months that had led him here, to this remote spot. Hiding from the world.

It had all started with _that woman_.

\--------------------------

Sherlock had been rehearsing relentlessly, completely focused on his craft and trying to ignore everyone around him as much as was possibly allowed. But that was normal. He had been given the much coveted lead in a new, avant-garde ballet that would test his endurance as no other part yet had, and he thrived on the challenge it brought. But he only had three weeks to perfect his role, and there was one, very big drawback. The climax of the production was an evocative, sensual dance for two.

A _pas de deux._

This infuriated Sherlock for so many reasons. For one, it required spending a great amount of time with a specific ballerina, one on one. Hours and hours a day in fact. It also required trust and communication, both of which were not exactly Sherlock’s forte. Not to mention the physical closeness the dance ruthlessly demanded, the mere thought of which made him shudder. Touch was something Sherlock avoided like Christmas dinner ever since ballet school, for reasons he had managed to delete. Well, mostly. Only in his dreams did Sherlock remember, and he often woke with dried tears on his face.

But this dance went far beyond touching. It was, in a way, almost like sex, a joining of bodies and minds, intimately becoming one on stage even as so many eyes watched.

Sherlock loathed this dance, literally detested everything about it with a great intensity.

However, the show must go on, as they say, and Sherlock was determined not to let it get the better of him. He would simply treat it professionally, like every other aspect of his life: with cold, hard logic. He just needed to look at it as another problem to solve. This was all just a show after all, and they, mere actors. He would have to get used to a new mask, a mask of adoring love for his partner.

Finding that partner, the woman who would share this dance with him, was another matter entirely.

Quite frankly, _no one_ wanted to dance with him. They all hated him and were filled with dread at the mere thought of even being placed anywhere near where he was dancing on stage. He was everyone’s worst critic, and because of it he had acquired a certain reputation amongst his fellow dancers. He had heard enough whispers to be aware of all the colorful nicknames he had been given; a few were so imaginative to actually have made him chuckle.

But it wasn’t just his endless flow of cutting words that had everyone avoiding him. He also had the uncanny ability to merely look at someone and know exactly what they had been doing hours before—and with whom. People found it frightening; unsettling at best, and downright creepy at worst.

Sherlock was exceptionally observant, had learnt from a young age to focus not only on his own body, carefully training it to move precisely how he wanted it to, but also on everything around him, soaking in every microscopic detail. He could watch a performance by someone else and instantly be able to repeat it, unerringly and with more finesse.

Because of all of this, the selection process was becoming something of a circus. One by one, an exhaustive succession of poor ballerinas were forcibly charged with being his partner, and they would come to rehearsal as though walking to their own death.

The rehearsals, if you could even call them that, had now become an utter waste of time. Without fail, whoever was paired with him would eventually storm out angry or in tears. And this after he had already invested so much precious energy trying to help them _get it right_. It was ridiculous.

Was it his fault that no one seemed to possess the ability to dance to his standards? Or even come remotely close? Was it really that hard to pay attention and observe what was required of one’s body to make the choreography come alive and devastate the crowd? You simply had to remain in complete command of every muscle, every little movement you performed. Each expression on your face had to be carefully controlled. It was an exercise of mind over matter, and anyone’s body could be tamed, could be harnessed to perform to perfection. God knows he did it every night. You just had to _focus_.

Just when there were no other principal dancers left and Sherlock was beginning to think he could escape the pas de deux entirely, the woman appeared as if from thin air.

Before the sun had even risen, Sherlock was at the barre going through his morning routine, carefully warming up all of his muscles. Suddenly the skin on his neck prickled and he could almost feel eyes traveling slowly along his body. He froze immediately and looked up, making eye contact through the mirror with a woman standing in the doorway.

“Sherlock Holmes, I presume?” Her voice simply purred each syllable as she confidently strolled into the room.

Sherlock turned around, his eyes widening slightly as they took in the woman fully. She was dressed in a white suit dress and wore blood red shoes that matched her lipstick. Her dark hair was piled loosely on top of her head, but it was her eyes that had him a bit speechless. She was looking at him, _really_ looking, and it unnerved him greatly. Only one other person had ever seemed to see into his soul like that, so effortlessly.

He immediately put his guard up as he straightened himself to his full height, head up, eyes narrowed. “And who might you be?” He forced himself to walk towards her, to not betray any emotion but that of cool disinterest. He suspected she saw through the act.

With a smile almost predatory, she reached out her hand, taking his with a firm shake. “Irene Adler. But you may call me anything you like.” Never breaking eye contact, she spoke softly, as though she were telling a secret, her voice full of unspoken promises. She slowly let go of his hand, letting his fingers slip through hers in a surprisingly erotic fashion. She stepped even closer and looked up into his face with bright, hungry eyes. “I heard you were in need of a dance partner. I believe I am the woman for the job, Mr. Holmes.”

And just like that, before Sherlock could so much as breathe an objection, she was cast to star opposite himself. The Royal Ballet was desperate for her to work out, in fact. The only reason Sherlock had not been thrown out entirely was because of his family name and connexions. Of course his brother would have made them regret it if they did try to remove him. So that left the company’s director in a very hard position. When Irene arrived with an impressive resume as though in answer to unspoken prayers, she was hired without question.

Irene was not originally from England. Sherlock deduced by her faint accent that she was from the south of France but had lived in England since she was a young girl. She obviously had some of the best ballet tutors growing up, by the way she kept up with Sherlock’s grueling pace during rehearsals.

Sherlock fought down an uneasy feeling growing inside him as he watched her glide through their routine, as he wrapped his arms around her and lifted her above his head, as she slowly undulated herself around his body. He didn’t even know why he felt this way, until one day, when she was spinning through the air with a look of rapture on her face, he realized why.

She was a better dancer than he was.

Sure, they both knew the choreography perfectly, but there was emotion, real and potent, that bled through and shone far brighter than any memorized routine that Sherlock knew. She danced with her heart and soul on display, it was no act. She conquered through raw feeling where mere technique fell short. The audience would be eating out of her palms in delight. Sherlock himself felt entranced by her beautiful, sensual movements.

If Sherlock hoped to best her, or even keep up with her performance, he needed to drop his act. He needed to dance with his heart as well as his mind.

But this was something that Sherlock was not willing to do. Not publicly, anyway, and certainly not with _her_. His heart, if he even still had one, was not going to be put on display for someone else’s entertainment. The very idea angered him. He’d die rather than show any part of his true self.

So with great difficulty, he worked on perfecting the mask he wore while dancing with Irene, focusing his charms on her, carefully observing to see if she fell for it. If he could convince her, make her believe in his performance, then the rest of the audience was child’s play.

As the weeks went by, Sherlock felt more and more confident that his plan was working. Irene was softening incredibly, and he felt in control again. He was on fire!

One week before opening night, the ballet company was required to tour several prominent cities in Europe in order to promote both the theater and the production. Their first stop was Switzerland, and after wrapping up their promotional duties, their local tour guide took the company to the famed Reichenbach Falls.

Sherlock thought it fairly hot for a spring day. The whole day had been rather tiring, and their group was constantly surrounded by reporters and fans clamoring for attention. When Irene suggested they slip away and take a walk to get a closer look at the falls, he immediately agreed. There was a path that led to the top of the falls, and after crossing a bridge, they walked down the dirt path and approached the ledge cautiously.

Sherlock stood there for several minutes entranced, overcome with the magnificence of the falls. It was incredible, the water simply roared with life. It was some time before he realised that Irene was no longer next to him. He turned, with his back now to the falls, and tried to see where she had gone. He had barely taken a few steps when he suddenly heard a blood curdling scream. Tensing, he again turned toward the noise when he felt strong, relentless hands around his throat while another shadow approached just out of his line of sight with an object raised overhead. He struggled hard but briefly.

Then there was only darkness.

He woke several days later in a private hospital with a very sore throat and a large, painful bump on his head. He found out later that some tourists had been walking close by when they heard the scream and came running. His two assailants were about to throw his body over the falls when they were stopped by his rescuers. Unfortunately, his would-be murderers got away.

The woman vanished completely.

Although Sherlock had many rivals, many people who hated him, wanted him to fail, he had not considered that one of them, or apparently several of them, could also want him dead.

This changed things. He would have to go into hiding. He needed time to think and to recover.

\--------------------------

And now here he was, far from London in the middle of nowhere. Sherlock had not even told his brother where he was going. He just quietly slipped away from the hospital and took the first bus out of town before hitchhiking for several miles to his current location. But it wouldn’t be long before he was found. Mycroft had a knack for always knowing exactly where he was, and it never ceased to annoy him.

Sherlock knew his brother held sway in more than one area of government, and he wondered what strings Mycroft must be pulling even now to find out who had tried to kill him. He would be forced to hide until the problem was dealt with, but he supposed there were worse fates. He could be fish food, for one.

Sherlock ran his hands through his hair with a sigh. The whole situation was actually very dull. Sherlock felt no fear, only contempt for anyone who would go to such despicable lengths in order to come out on top. They apparently lacked any real talent, and could not even hope to conquer Sherlock on the stage.

The worst part though, the real tragedy of this whole mess, was the way his tiresome brother hounded him even more. Never giving him a moment’s rest, going on and on about his safety. As if his own person was what he cared about. Sherlock glowered as he remembered their last conversation in the hospital. The bastard was even trying to get him to agree to have some big mindless automaton in a suit follow him around 24/7.

The LAST thing Sherlock needed or wanted was a constant bodygua—. Sherlock’s whole mind abruptly stilled and his eyes widened in complete and utter shock. There were footprints outside the very window he was sitting at.

Someone had been here recently.

Someone had been _watching him dance._

In a flash Sherlock bounded through the window and bent over the prints, face pressed close as he scrutinized them.

They were fresh, and judging by the indentations, the man (obviously male, mid-thirties, about 180 lbs and 5’7” tall, favoring one leg) had been standing there for at least—and at this deduction the color drained from Sherlock’s face— _30 fucking minutes_.

Sherlock felt faint, and he had to hold the windowsill for balance as he stood. He looked through the window, trying to imagine the view (his dance must have appeared desperate … wild … _dirty_ ) from an outsider’s perspective, and he thought he might be sick. _Oh god_.

He was an idiot. HOW could he have been so STUPID? He should never have allowed himself to be so vulnerable, so unaware. _FOR SO LONG_.

He was lucky though, if it had been one of his attackers, he would certainly be dead by now.

Sherlock paced back and forth, trying to gather his thoughts and force down his growing panic. Okay, so someone knew he was here. Who? Was it one of his brother’s spies? He turned again to the prints and followed them back to the dirt road.

Sherlock frowned in confusion. It couldn’t be one of his brother’s men. These were not the footsteps of a man who even knew where he was going. They were slow, halting steps. Meandering even. He walked with a hard limp, leaning heavily on a cane, and strangest of all, it seemed as though he had been going to walk right on by the church before he turned back towards it.

So. The man had not come here with the intention of spying on him. He must have discovered him by accident! This thought greatly relieved Sherlock, though he still felt flush with embarrassment to have been unwittingly observed by someone. He should know by now that it is never safe to let his guard down.

Sherlock slowly walked back towards the church deep in thought. He needed to find out who knew he was here and then decide if he was a threat. An overzealous fan? Sherlock shook his head. There was no way some random fan could have found him before his brother did. It must be completely random. But where did the stranger even come from? The closest cottage had had no signs of life, looked run down and even had a for sale sign in front of it. Sherlock had briefly considered staying there before he caught sight of this place. The man must be quietly living there, which made Sherlock wonder if he was also in hiding.

As he was mulling it all over, Sherlock finally noticed the cane hidden in the tall grass along the side of the building.

Sherlock went over and picked it up, turning it slowly in his hand. This just didn’t make any sense, and he was feeling baffled all over again. _How_ could the mystery man forget something so important? So necessary to his ability to get around? Based on the footprints and the hard indentation of the cane in the dirt, he leaned heavily on it and was greatly dependent on this cane.

Immediately Sherlock looked up, seeking out the footprints that would be leading away from the church. What he saw made his jaw drop and his heart stop.

The footsteps walking away were those of a soldier. This man’s gait was confident and strong and full of purpose, his stride long, swift, and utterly… _brilliant_.

These prints did not, _could not_ , belong to the same man. Yet there was no doubt in Sherlock’s mind that they did. It was as if the man had transformed at that window, during a brief half hour in time, and had walked away a completely different person. All Sherlock could think was, “ _How_?”

Sherlock walked back over to the window and looked in, completely perplexed. What did that man see in here, see in _him_ , which would completely change the way he walked, causing his limp to vanish? Could he have had a religious experience? Sherlock looked at the building carefully. It was a church after all, and he had heard of people claiming to have been healed during their visit.

But it was not a religious service that the man had witnessed, and there was nothing holy about the way he had been dancing. Sherlock blushed and swallowed a bit guiltily. He supposed most people would find it quite… sacrilegious….his use of the empty church.

But Sherlock was not most people, and he quickly dismissed the brief feelings of guilt, focusing his mind once again on the mystery man.

Sherlock was _fascinated_ by him.

Precious little in this world had ever had that effect on Sherlock, and he now could not wait to find out who this man was, what he looked like, what he was doing out here. Sherlock wanted to discover absolutely everything there was to know about him, right now in fact.

Already his mind was putting the pieces together… soldier with a limp, young, out here in the middle of nowhere… cane cheaply made, must be poor, unable to afford London on an army pension, wounded in battle…but not his leg, the limp was obviously psychosomatic since it vanished when the man became…..aroused?

Sherlock stilled at that last, unexpected deduction. Could it be? No, he thought, deleting the wild idea. He shouldn’t get ahead of himself. He needed more data.

Sherlock’s body was positively pulsing with excitement, and he was already looking wistfully towards the cottage about two miles away. But he would need to wait for the cover of darkness, which would not be for a couple hours yet.

Sherlock turned back towards his own temporary living quarters, unconsciously humming a tune while he plotted the night’s activities. Chuckling mischievously, he decided that he would have to do a little window peeping himself. Two could play at that game. As he opened the door of the abandoned parish house, he smiled at the cane in his hand. “Finders keepers,” he whispered, and went in to wait for nightfall.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We learn a bit more about John and the past that haunts him.
> 
> TW: some depression/dark thoughts and violence/battle memories in this chapter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check the tags I have added and the chapter warning. Thank you all for reading, please let me know what you think of this update! :D
> 
> Beta'd yet again by iamjohnlocked4life, thank you love!
> 
> All mistakes are mine.

  

_“The heart dies a slow death, shedding each hope like leaves until one day there are none. No hopes. Nothing remains.”_

**― Arthur Golden, _Memoirs of a Geisha_**

 

 

With every resolute step John had taken towards the indifferent accommodation awaiting him, his heart sank a little bit more. Now that he was inside and sitting in a chair by an unused fireplace, a cup of cold, forgotten tea on the table next to him, he was positively morose. After witnessing such unearthly beauty, the small, barren cottage felt oppressive to him, the quiet no longer welcoming.

The contrast hit him hard. It was as if he had been in the presence of the divine, as if he had been given a taste of sweet, heavenly nectar, only to have it ripped away from him suddenly. And now he sat in growing darkness while night woke from its slumber.

Alone once more.

Closing his eyes tightly, John gripped the arms of the chair, willing away with all his might the wishful longing rising up inside. He would not think of this man. He would _not_. It wouldn’t do to waste time hopelessly pining for someone far beyond his reach, now that stark reality was staring him in the face. It was unlikely he would ever see him again, and that was that. Besides, it just seemed wrong, to continue fantasising about a man he had indecently spied on earlier. That sensual display hadn’t been meant for his eyes, and he felt rather like a thief who had stolen a glance at something forbidden. What the hell was wrong with him? His behaviour was unbelievable, and he silently chastised himself.

John sat there for several more minutes, fiercely struggling to get back some semblance of control, but his body continued to betray him. Frustrated, he focused on his breathing, slowly inhaling and exhaling, trying to clear his mind of everything. He could do this. He was in command of his own body, at the very least. He thought of birds. Of fluffy white clouds. Of churches and the male anatomy in motion. John groaned. The intoxicating image was like a brand seared into the framework of John’s mind. He squirmed in his chair, resisting the urge to touch himself.

Desire coursed through his veins, making John’s pulse flutter like the wings of a hummingbird. So fragile and strong. So _alive_. His heart was awakening against his will, even as his body remained defiantly hard. John had not thought he was still capable of feeling passion this strong; his libido had taken a hit after his injury, and arousal was a near-forgotten sensation. But here it was, making a loud and persistent reappearance. John huffed out a breath, amused despite himself at the thought that it must have been his bloody erection that had carried him all the way home. John shook his head slowly. There really was no other explanation.

John was still stunned that he had left his cane behind. Absolutely gob smacked. Seriously, how in the world had he managed to walk all that way without it, and so quickly? He had realised it as soon as he sat down and had blessedly _not_ felt the residual ache spreading up his whole leg from being on his feet. He was half afraid to stand again, worried that it might reappear now that he was conscious of it. But shit, this was progress. Today marked the first time that he was able to take a step without discomfort. And he had taken quite a few today, fleeing from that vision. Maybe he wouldn’t need that damned crutch anymore.

John almost dared to hope.

Apparently watching several minutes of erotic dancing had done what months of therapy could not. He licked his lips, eyes lighting up with the delicious memory. Now _that_ was a cure he could get behind. Or on top of. _Mmm yes_. He would take the treatment daily, with no complaints. John sighed and looked down at the bulge in his lap. He positively ached with need, and he felt his resistance starting to crumble.

But holy fuck, _who was that_? Where did he come from and why was he all the way out here, seemingly alone? And with those dark curls begging to be caressed, to be played with. John couldn’t believe the level of intensity with which he desired this unknown man. Something was stirring inside of him that was both unreal and completely overpowering. All John wanted to do was map out that body with his mouth, to discover every hidden valley and lap up each pool of moist sweat. John’s mouth watered at the thought of drinking him right down. And those tattoos… _god_. He wanted to learn them, to trace their lines and curves, first with his eyes and fingers before knowing their texture intimately with his lips.

John cursed softly, trying to remember himself and what a lost cause this was. He might as well have set his sights on the moon. John shook his head, a tight, angry smile on his face. He needed to take a good hard look in the mirror. Who in their right mind would want him? A retired, broken has-been with a psychosomatic limp (which may or may not reappear like an unwelcome family member) and hardly any money. Not an attractive prospect for any one, especially not someone so … so … _fucking amazing_.

John jumped out of the chair in frustration and began pacing the floor, forgetting his limp once again. This was _not_ good. He had taken great pains to quiet the desires of his heart, to want for nothing and be content with the lot he had been given, to live the rest of his life in whatever peace he could find, and until this moment he thought he had won that small battle. He didn’t need this, not now. He had become used to feeling nothing but blissful emptiness, and it was vastly preferable to this craving that could never be realised. He could live without sex. Without love. And he needed to stop torturing himself with wishing for it. He had to pull himself together, he simply had to.

He was out here to clear his mind, to rid himself of the nightmares, and to start his life fresh – whatever was left of it anyway. To be honest, John no longer felt that was even possible. He had stopped believing in miracles a long time ago. All John hoped for at this point was to merely exist with minimal pain. It was all he deserved, and he was ready to accept that. To continue on quietly until he breathed his last.

 Although peace just wasn’t something that seemed to be in the cards for him. Everywhere he went and always without warning, his past would present itself in vivid color. Even now, standing in a quiet cottage in the country, John could smell gunpowder rising in his mind, bringing memories so fresh, so painful, it made his eyes water. He stilled and stared at the ceiling, unconsciously clenching his fists as his mind traveled a familiar path back in time.

\--------------------------

He was kneeling on that hot, dusty battlefield. The sand was in his eyes as his blood seeped into the ground. His ears were ringing from the sound of gunfire and a deafening explosion as he looked down at the lifeless bodies all around him. His comrades. _His friends_. Horror and guilt were carving a hole straight through his innards, leaving him numb. Empty. _If only … If only._ The pain in his shoulder was intense, but he hardly noticed it. The bullet that tore through his shoulder was superfluous, for in that moment, the John Watson that everyone had come to know and respect, had already ceased to be.

_He had been too late to save them._

He was told not to go. He was the unit’s primary physician, and there were already so many broken bodies needing attention. John had been working tirelessly around the clock to make them whole again. Or at least, to keep them breathing. There was unfortunately nothing he could do for their tattered souls. But then word had arrived of an ambush a mile off. A team of new recruits were outnumbered and dropping like flies. His commanding officer, Major Sholto, was leading this excursion and had been wounded, according to the report. Without thought, John grabbed the keys of his jeep and tore off towards the danger, but the assailants had already left by the time he got there … or so he had thought.

He stood there, helpless and in shock, staring down at the bloody remains of young men who had become like family. Smoke was heavy in the air from a nearby building that had been demolished by a bomb. Everywhere John looked was death. And just as he began to desperately search through the rubble for Sholto, he was shot.

Time was suspended for several moments as he swayed on his feet, wavering in despair before sinking to his knees. Eventually, unconsciousness from the loss of blood, took over. He woke again, that night, surrounded by his medical team, and he was screaming. The nightmares had already begun.

Sometimes John wished the bullet had hit him lower and a bit more to the right.

He arrived back in London weeks later, weary and alone. He had found out while still in hospital that Sholto had survived, but he was badly injured, his body scarred, and he absolutely refused to see or speak to anyone. A few days later, his friend was transferred out by request, leaving behind no way of keeping in touch with him. John was crushed.

Adjusting to civilian life seemed impossible. The horrors he had witnessed and experienced first-hand caused him to avoid his family and friends. No one understood. He didn’t even understand how changed he was. Therapy was a nightmare and just plain awkward. He couldn’t open up even to his therapist, so he sat there for an hour each weak saying how fine he was, and that his blog was great, life was, you know, just fine.

At first he had wanted to remain in London, but it soon become apparent what a bad idea that was. Not only was it too expensive to live alone—and who would want _him_ for a flat mate?—but it got to the point where he would cringe every time he ran into one of his old army buddies and inevitably had to explain himself over and over. Each day brought painful reminders of who he wasn’t. And John was so tired of people looking at him with those kind and pitying faces, shaking their heads sadly and thinking of how different he was now.

The last straw was when he ran into Mike Stamford, an old friend with whom he had studied at St. Bart’s. The man was kind, always had been, but he said something to John that day that instantly cut, wounding deeper than any weapon ever could.

_“That’s not the John Watson I know….”_

John was speechless. He could not articulate to Mike who or what he was now. He had had such a promising career as an army surgeon, someone others looked up to, a man who could save lives as easily as take them, a Captain who commanded respect with just a glance of his eyes. And now? John had not realised until it was gone, how much of his identity and worth he had derived from his profession as a doctor and soldier. He honestly felt, at the young age of thirty-two, that his life was over.

John suddenly wanted to leave. Just leave everything behind. So when Mike mentioned he had a friend who was selling a little place far out in the middle of nowhere for cheap, he jumped at the chance.

John had only been here a month, and he already felt so disconnected from everyone and everything. Not that he had been a social person before, but he really felt the distance. The remote area seemed like the last straw for his sanity, but his therapist assured him that it would be good for him to get some fresh air, to go outside and let nature soothe his wounds. She even wanted him to write about everything that happened to him while he lived out here. The idea had seemed ridiculous to John at the time. _Write about what_ , he thought with irritation. There was only so much you could say about the clean air and the mildly pretty landscape. Nothing worth noting ever happened in the country.

_Until now._

\--------------------------

John rubbed his hands along his face and continued to pace the floor. This time he thought of the walk he had taken earlier that very day, towards the picturesque church he had noticed when he first moved in. He was merely wanting to get some exercise, trying to keep his body moderately in shape, when he had stumbled upon the man dancing. Who knew walking down that lonely path would send his mind and body into a tailspin.

The man inspired poetic thoughts in John, however artless. He actually felt like writing now, felt like he had something to say. The thought cheered him up, and he even laughed at the thought of his therapist reading about transparent tights and an ass that looked like globes of soft butter just waiting to be spread….in the moonlight. Yes, as long as he added something about nature it could pass as poetry. John was almost giddy now as he grabbed a pen and paper, smiling with mischief as he began to write whatever came to his mind:

 _Slowly I undressed him,_  
_until he wore nothing but flowers in his hair_  
_and moonlight on his skin._

 _I took him down by the stream and laid him out,_  
_feasting my eyes on his pale loveliness_  
_before I began to partake of it._

 _We lingered all night_  
_until dawn had come,_  
_and by then we were as one._

John looked contentedly at the hasty writing. This _was_ therapeutic. His expression warmed as beguiling, erotic thoughts took over his mind… thoughts of slow heat and wet friction, of soft moans extracted from tangled bodies. He hadn’t felt this alive in so long. And oh how he _wanted_. John embraced the erotic daydream this time. It was like a sweet oasis for his soul, and dammit he was going to enjoy this, at least this once. He was desperate now for release, to let go all the tension in his body.

John’s hands, now that he had finally made a decision, could not move fast enough.

He quickly undid all the buttons of his tight jeans and shoved his hand deep inside his pants. He gasped at the contact, feeling instant relief as he slowly stroked himself. His breathing was already becoming ragged, and he moved over to the fireplace so he could lean one hand on the mantle, head down. The arousal pooling in his gut drew gasps from his lips. John’s mouth hung open as he gave himself to the sensations. It had been so long. He needed this, and he knew he wouldn’t last long. He was already close to the brink and barely able to hold himself upright. He moaned as he thought of all the dirty things he wanted to do with this dancer. He imagined the taste of the man, the feel of their bodies, slick and hot with sweat, slowly rubbing against each other, their erections trapped between their soft bellies. John was so lost in the fantasy, he fancied he could hear the other man’s moans, the sound was so deep, so guttural, so _near_. Oh god, more.

In a fit of frustration, John shoved his jeans and pants down farther, freeing himself as his hips thrust his pulsing erection into his hand with renewed energy, the muscles in his ass and thighs clenching and unclenching, his skin glowing in the low light. But just as John was about to orgasm, to feel sated at long last, there was a terribly loud crash at the window.

Several things happened at once, and John wasn’t even sure how he managed to burst out that door so quickly, his instincts kicking in like clockwork – drop to the ground, roll to the desk, secure his SIG from the drawer. He was outside before he knew it, gun in hand and poised on an embarrassed-looking man, bits of dirt smeared on his face and grass in his hair. The empty trash bins he had been standing on lay on their sides in testimony to where he had been a moment before.

John’s blue eyes widened as they locked onto the other man’s startled ones.

It was _him_.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The finally meet, face to face. :D

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi again!!!! This chapter was so much fun to write, and it's my favorite one so far! I consider it my "Ode to John." It just seemed necessary after all those negative thoughts he was having last chapter. ;-) I thought of il0vedaydreaming and fortheloveofjawn specifically as I wrote it. I hope you like it!
> 
> Thank you iamjohnlocked4life for continuing to beta this for me, even as you prepare to fly to New Zealand! Eeeeee I'm so excited for you!!! :D You are the BEST and I love you so much!

_“When the Best is gone - I know that other things are not of consequence - The Heart wants what it wants - or else it does not care.”_

**_\--Emily Dickenson, a letter to Mary Bowles, 1862_ **

 

Time stood still.

Even Sherlock’s mind came to a screeching halt as their eyes remained steadfastly locked on each other, hearts beating fast and hard, in unison for the first time. Their heavy breaths sounded loud in comparison to the soft night sounds, and in that moment, the earth ceased to exist. Everything faded into nothingness, everything but the arousing sight of this man in front of Sherlock, bathed in the soft light from the open doorway. He looked … flawless … if not a bit angry.

Sherlock distantly wondered if he had unknowingly stumbled onto the secret home of one of the gods, choosing to live the life of a mortal in anonymity. But no, that was merely a children’s story, a silly fantasy told to him in order to shut up his crying at night when he was first sent away from home. This man was real, solid, all flesh and blood. And 100% male. A surge of desire shot through him as he took in the angry red tip of the man’s penis, peeking at him from jeans not quite pulled all the way up in his haste, and Sherlock had to bite his lip to keep back the wanton sound about to escape his throat.

Neither of them moved. There was a deceiving stillness between them, pregnant with electricity, and it made Sherlock’s inner being hum with a strange anticipation. He felt irrationally drawn to him. There was an instant connection there, however illogical, as if an invisible chord were wrapped around his center and irrevocably tied to this man. He had a notion, that were he to walk away, to carry on with his life without ever seeing him again, that this chord would break, and he would bleed inwardly. The idea was ludicrous to Sherlock, even as he felt the strength of its pull towards the other man.

Sherlock felt powerless against the overwhelming and raw emotions awakening in him. All he could do at this point was stand there speechless, gaping at the man steadily holding a gun on him. His brain had yet to catch up with this sudden change in events, and Sherlock hated feeling confused and disoriented. He still wasn’t sure what had happened. In one moment, he was perched on tip toes—precariously yet confidently on top of the empty bins—watching, mystified, as the man slowly came apart while he pleasured himself. The next instant he had been lying face down in the dirt.

The fateful instant in which the man had thrust his hand down his pants, seemingly out of nowhere, had caught Sherlock completely off guard. He had observed the man was aroused, very obviously, as he first sat and then paced in the room, but the expressions that had been flashing across his face in the minutes leading up to that erotic moment were not conducive to pleasure. He had seemed so stricken with heartache a few seconds ago that his actions took Sherlock by surprise, an emotion he was _not_ used to experiencing.

But oh what a sight. At first he had spied on the man from the safety of solid ground, but the cottage had been built on thick brick, giving it a sturdy foundation. Unfortunately for Sherlock, this made the walls high and the windows higher. Sherlock could only reach the bottom few inches which made seeing anything through the window slats almost impossible. That hadn’t lasted very long. Of course, Sherlock had needed to see better, to see _more_. He quickly found some empty bins nearby, and stood precariously on top of them, easily balancing himself on the unstable surface.

As Sherlock had taken it all in from his improved yet shaky vantage point, he was unaware of his own body’s response to the visual stimuli. He hadn’t noticed his legs had began to weaken or that his whole body had started to tremble. Sherlock wasn’t paying any attention to his heart rate or erection or even the fact he had let out a rather loud moan just then. He was too busy soaking in everything.

 _Everything_.

The man’s profile had been strong, lips open, inviting, as if waiting for someone to give them attention. His face was twisted with a frustrated pleasure, and the soft sounds he made, barely audible through the window, sounded so desperate. The man only had on a sleeveless undershirt and jeans, and his arms were well defined. He could see his bicep bulge and flex while he griped himself, making Sherlock’s eyes widen even more. His muscular chest heaved with each breath, and Sherlock could almost make out some beads of sweat along his brow and neck.

The man’s hair was sandy blond with heavy amounts of grey sprinkled in. It looked so soft that Sherlock had to fight down a sudden, absurd desire to tousle that hair, to weigh it in his hand, _to smell it_.  In sharp contrast, his beard, obviously acquired since being discharged from the army, looked bristly and coarse, and it had a rich looking texture. Sherlock couldn’t stop himself from pondering, quite eagerly, how it would feel rubbed against his sensitive skin, in the most vulnerable of places.

The man was not tall, but he was solidly built, his chest was broad, his posture, even while doing this questionable activity, spoke of action. He was tanned, though most of it had faded. His skin looked weathered, giving him an older appearance than he was. It suited him perfectly. With eyes squeezed tightly shut, a soft blush on his cheeks complementing his rosy, open mouth, and a nose that turned up ever so slightly at the end, he was the most handsome yet feral man Sherlock had ever seen. There was a dangerous quality to him, a hint of darkness just under the surface that he found immediately fascinating.

Sherlock never liked to make assumptions, only observe the facts, but he couldn’t help but strongly sense and believe that the harsh, wounded man he was now looking at was once as soft as a new born pup, that his roughness around the edges was brought about by circumstances and was not naturally part of his disposition. Where there might have once been tenderness, there was now only pain and … disappointment? And an ever present anger rolling silently behind those eyes, if the mere flashes he had glimpsed were anything to go on. Heaviness was written all over his face and in the downward slope of his shoulders. What could have happened to this man, to make him this way? What was he doing out here? A man such as this, with all that incredible potential vibrating under his skin.

Sherlock had to know. He wanted to speak to him and hear his voice distinctly, to hear more than the quiet whimpers that he was making now … but hold on … the whimpers suspiciously stopped when Sherlock closed his own mouth. Good lord, those ridiculous noises were coming from himself! Though shocked at this realization, he couldn’t stop himself from doing it again, as he continued to helplessly watch the man stroke himself inside his jeans.

All at once, the man shoved down those jeans, releasing his hard, leaking erection. Sherlock was instantaneously lost in the sight of this _glorious and unhindered_ view, as he witnessed it jutting out proudly from his chiseled body while the man now moved with abandon. It was this exact moment that ultimately caused Sherlock to lose his balance in an epic, humiliating crash. He had simply let go of his hold on the window, apparently with the bright idea of taking hold of his own hardness that was just begging for attention. He couldn’t be sure, for he hadn’t been using his head at the time … well, not the one connected to his shoulders. And worst of all, he didn’t even get a chance to touch himself. _Unbelievable_.

He had fallen hard, landing head first in a thankfully soft plot of ground that had once been a flower bed. He barely had enough time to right himself before that man had burst out the door. Sherlock had promptly froze, feeling pinned to the spot like a helpless butterfly from one of his childhood collections, under the man’s hard gaze, which persisted on him still.

Here he was … the soldier … in the flesh. Sherlock tried to swallow the overwhelming awe he felt, but it caught in his throat. The footprints he had followed did not do him justice. They failed to show the incredible stamina that flowed in this man’s veins. He was like a dormant volcano, quiet on the outside even as lava churned and boiled beneath the exterior. Sherlock found himself wanting to set the man off and see what would happen. There was a fire in those blue eyes and such a strength evident in both his body and mind. Even in his shocked discovery of Sherlock’s presence, he had acted quickly and with a deadly precision. His hands were steady and calm, while he aimed his gun at Sherlock’s heart. Sherlock had no doubts that, had he been a hostile here to harm John, he would already be dead. The idea made him grin with delight. _Oh god the man was amazing_. But never mind the gun. Those eyes were far more dangerous.

 _Those eyes_.

Blue like the sea after a storm and oh so deep. Sherlock felt as though they could see into his soul with the intensity they had, and his whole body tingled with their potency. He couldn’t look away or think or do anything but drown in them. Nothing else mattered, but those eyes. It was only when the man licked his lips—breaking the spell—that he was able to glance away and down at that sinful mouth and seductive tongue. His own breath hitched as new and terrifying desires coursed through him. All he knew was that he wanted to feel that tongue on his body. He was out of practice at dealing with this sort of thing, and it left him completely undone.

It was then that Sherlock’s eyes traveled back down to the man’s arousal, and he unconsciously took a step nearer to the man as his hungry gaze continued to fix on his erection. This seemed to get the other man’s attention.

“Fuck.” The man cursed harshly and, much to Sherlock’s dismay, abruptly turned his back on him, putting the safety on his gun and shoving it deep into his back pocket so he could use both hand to buckle himself back into his pants properly. A sudden pang shot through Sherlock’s heart as he realised he would probably never see this man’s penis again. This depressing thought sobered him up considerably. He was being ridiculous. He should never have seen it to begin with!

Now as he came back to himself, he flushed with embarrassment at being caught watching the man. Also, he realised he was painfully hard. He looked down at himself and strongly regretting his poor decision to wear his favourite pair of black tights, as they left nothing to the imagination. _Oh dear god._ Well it wasn’t like he had planned on becoming painfully aroused when he had set out earlier. He had only been thinking of blending in with the night. He had certainly created a mess for himself.  And it had merely taken him all of one day without his brother’s supervision to accomplish it. It would only be a matter of time before Mycroft found out. This thought alone made him cringe. Best to stop this series of events in their tracks before they snowballed out of control.

The other man sighed heavily—bringing Sherlock back to the present—and turned to look at Sherlock. Sherlock quickly looked away, trying desperately to shove down all the irritating emotions he had been experiencing. It was quite a struggle to control his features, to put his well-worn mask back on. He wondered how much he had given away already. Sherlock needed to be calm, collected, and above all else, distant. This man, as intriguing and desirable as he seemed, was still a stranger. A man he had yet to even speak with. He would not make a fool of himself more than he already had.

Sherlock cleared his throat and finally faced the other man’s gaze, which had cooled a bit since its first startled reaction at seeing him. He opened his mouth to speak, but the other man beat him to it.

“What … were you doing out here?”

His voice. Rough and crisp. _Commanding._ Though he spoke calmly, his pitch had risen at the end, betraying the deadly seriousness behind the question.

Sherlock swallowed hard as his mind raced. He felt that the evidence was quite clear, even to someone without his deductive prowess, so he wasn’t sure if he should try to lie his way out of this or just be brutally honest. Without another thought he blurted out, “Would you believe me if I said I was the gardener?” He gave a small smirk as the other man actually gave a short laugh, eyes crinkling ever so slightly at the edges.

“No, no I wouldn’t.” The man had a half smile on his face, but it was still clouded by a wariness that bothered Sherlock to the core. He couldn’t understand why, but he wanted, no _needed,_ this man to trust him. Though Sherlock had literally just decided to distance himself from this person, his resolve crumbled at the first sight of this same restraint being used on him. It just would not do. He took a deep breath and decided honesty was really the only option here.

“My name is Sherlock Holmes. I am a principal danseur in the British Royal Ballet and am currently staying a couple miles from here. But of course, you already know that, having been to the location and seen me dancing earlier today. Don’t look so surprised, I found your cane. You left it behind in your hurry to leave, which means your limp is psychosomatic, though you were injured in the war but not in your leg. Yes, I know you are a military man, recently invalided home from either Afghanistan or Iraq, as your fading tan gives you away. Though I cannot fathom all the reasons you are living out here, lack of funds is one of them, and perhaps a disinclination to be around other people, as your recent beard shows a lack of concern for personal appearance, or a desire to distance yourself from who you were before you left for the war, I can’t tell for sure which but then I have only just met you. In any case, you are not happy here, as is apparent from your lack of any effort to make this place a home—you left the ‘for sale’ sign in the yard which had even me fooled, as I almost decided to live here myself. Is that enough of an explanation or should I continue?”

Sherlock took a breath, having said all of that in a rush, his nervousness making him talk faster than normal. This was the moment that most people cringed in disgust or called him a “freak.” He waited, bracing himself for the worst. The man looked at him with wide eyes, and he seemed to be speechless as he mentally mulled over the words Sherlock had showered over him. God, he always did talk too much. Why must he always open his mouth and ruin everything?

The man cleared his throat. “That. Was … amazing.”

It was Sherlock’s turn to look at him in shock. He was silent a moment, looking into the man’s eyes intently, trying to see if he was mocking him. He looked sincere. There was even a touch of wonder behind those eyes that made Sherlock’s heart stop.

“Do you really think so?” It came out almost in a whisper.

“Of course I do! It was fantastic. Simply _incredible_. It’s like you are a bloody psychic!”

Sherlock huffed out a breath and rolled his eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous, I simply observed.” Even as he said it, he couldn’t control the workings of his mouth, and a huge, genuine smile radiated across his whole face. He couldn’t help himself. The man’s words were like a warm ball of happiness that had settled in his stomach and he was already addicted.

It must have been contagious, because the man smiled warmly back at him—without any hint of wariness now, Sherlock thought to himself with satisfaction.

After a moment, and just before their gaze became awkward, the man spoke again.

“John. Watson. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Without hesitation, Sherlock reached out his hand to shake John’s, and the man’s grip felt warm, and slightly sticky in his hand. Realisation hit them both, and Sherlock unconsciously tightened his hold as the other man panicked and tried to pull his hand away. The smiles long gone, they were now standing dangerously close, with startled, embarrassed eyes looking up into dark, lust filled ones. He saw John’s eyes dart down to his mouth, and he opened his lips automatically, his breath coming out in quick, warm puffs. Sherlock leaned down closer, no longer thinking rationally as his heart raced. He wanted this, all of it, whatever he could have. He was willing to give himself, completely, he realised with a start. For the first time in 9 long years, he wanted to be with someone _in that way_.

John was the one to wrench away, and it instantly broke Sherlock’s heart. _He doesn’t want me_. _Of course._ There was only an instant, a quick flash of pain that flitted across Sherlock’s face, before he carefully arranged his features back to indifference.  

Sherlock did not believe in love at first sight, or second sight, or even after 57 sights. It was only a chemical default in the brain after all, and he had thought he had successfully trained his mind to be resistant to such dangerous nonsense.

Yet Sherlock could not deny that something electrical had been happening in this moment between them, when everything else faded to black and there was nothing but the two of them, standing under the stars and moon. He felt that he simply could not be apart from this man.

He was a complete idiot.

John cleared his throat again, visibly uncomfortable. Sherlock realized he had long ago overstayed his welcome. “I’m sorry to have bothered you, John. You have my word it won’t happen again.” He turned to leave but the man called out to him.

“Wait … Sherlock.” Sherlock half turned back to give him an irritated look.

“Yes?” Sherlock said with as much impatience as he could muster.

“There’s just one thing that I don’t understand. How _do_ you know that the cane belongs to me? It could have been anyone’s. And I’m not limping _now_ , so maybe it isn’t mine. Maybe you got it wrong.” At this John lifted his head slightly, as if in a challenge.

A mischievous smile crept over Sherlock’s face as he turned to slowly walk back over to John as he spoke. “Oh John, that was elementary. You left _so many_ footprints. It was obvious to me, hell, it would have been obvious to anyone with eyes in their head. And come to think of it, why were you standing outside that church window, hmmm? Did you like what you saw? Was it mere curiosity that caused you to linger _for so long_?” At this Sherlock smirked and John paled.

Sherlock leaned down into John’s personal space yet again, and added, “It was easy to know who it was. I simply followed you home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you are a fan of Jane Eyre, you will notice the lines I borrowed from there. Also, "eyes like the sea after a storm" is a Princess Bride reference. Lastly, the ending line is a nod to Sally Donovan, who asked John in A Study in Pink, "Did _he_ follow you home?" Well, in this story, yes, yes he did. :D
> 
> And I am on tumblr if you would like to stop by! [deduce-my-heart](http://deduce-my-heart.tumblr.com/)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get even more heated. :D

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI!!!! I've finally updated! I'm so sorry for the long delay! This chapter is extra long as a way of saying thank you for your patience. 
> 
> Special thanks to my beta, iamjohnlocked4life for your endless encouragement and guidance as I continue this story. I love you!
> 
> Enjoy!

_“I want  
To do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.”_

\--Pablo Neruda

 

John held his breath along with Sherlock’s gaze, outwardly calm while his mind raced to catch up with the embarrassing questions being thrown at him. He still felt confused over finding _him_ here—the dancer, outside his house after dark, looking positively edible in black tights and a hoodie. It was almost comical that his upper body was modestly covered while his lower region was on such proud display. Not that John was complaining. John only felt that it would bring balance to the force if Sherlock’s smooth chest, dark tattoos, and hardened nipples (from either the cold or something more base) were visible as well. It was a crisp night, and though John had goosebumps up and down his bare arms, he felt hot all over. His imagination instantly jumped to a sultry and tangled happy ending in his small bed: midnight hair spilled out on his pillow, lithe body open and writhing while John slowly worshipped him. If only that were a possibility. _But he followed me home…why the HELL did he follow me home … and he’s... he’s … oh god he’s RIGHT there. If I leaned a bit closer I’d be flush against his body._

John’s discomfort at their close proximity seemed to only heighten his senses. He was now painfully aware of the man’s unique scent, of his breath so hot, exhaling in tickling gusts on his cheek and neck. John could clearly make out the gold flecks in Sherlock’s bright eyes, but the expression behind them was ambiguous. John wanted to gently coax those veiled thoughts out into the open, to persuade him to speak the mysteries of his mind. John wondered if that succulent mouth would open up if he kissed it. He was prepared to do anything, anything at all, to know this man as well as he seemed to know him with only one look. But John thought he’d rather learn through a hands on approach, to discover his secrets by pushing him against the door and tasting the texture of his skin, to hear the man’s deepest thoughts whispered breathlessly as he sucked and gently bit a tender earlobe. John wanted to know what would make him _moan_.

Desire was clouding John’s mind, licking at his body and making him want to do terrible, terrible things. The man’s nearness was maddening, and John felt lightheaded. He was fighting an urge to simply rip those clothes away and touch him everywhere. Clearly not a good idea. Was it really only a few minutes ago that this man had starred prominently in a highly detailed wank fantasy? And now here he was, as if summoned by John’s own erotic thoughts and wishful thinking. This was poor timing at its worst. If he hadn’t been about to orgasm when Sherlock arrived, perhaps he would be more level headed now? Then again, perhaps not.

John’s eyes were drawn to the deep, mysterious ones glittering down at him, knowing far too much about his recent activities. Even now they appeared to be reading and analysing his most intimate thoughts. John felt like an unwilling participant in an inquisition. He had the wild sensation that if he continued looking into those eyes for much longer, he would have no more secrets left, everything uncovered. Sherlock could just glance at him and know more of his dark, twisted self than anyone else on the planet, including his own mother. John swallowed hard and unconsciously focused on those lush, damp lips, alarmingly close before biting his own to stop a whimper. John indulged himself even more, sliding his gaze down to rest on the very detailed form of a completely aroused man. _Oh … yes. Right there. That’s what I want and those flimsy tights won’t keep me out._

John silently prayed that Sherlock could not actually see into his mind, especially right now. Oh hell, could he though? John felt himself baulking at the idea. It was amazing … and terrifying. And he didn’t only know things, _he wanted answers_. John gulped.

John, who had faced war without flinching, ran towards danger without hesitation, was currently trembling as he looked back up into that cool, calculated gaze. John realised with a jolt that he would have been less fazed had he found a whole group of armed hostiles at his door instead of this one man, who apparently could disarm him with a heated look. When he had heard that crash and thought he was being ambushed, his mind and body instantly responded as though in battle. John had thrummed with energy and adrenaline, ready to fight and if necessary—even kill—in order to survive. He had not felt anything, certainly not fear. There was nothing but a calm, deadly resolve as his lightning precision took over.

Now he felt the beginnings of something decidedly unpleasant coil and pulse through his body. He felt unsure of himself. Good lord was he actually nervous? Was this slip of a man, gorgeous though he may be, intimidating him? John swallowed and tried to focus, remembering that he had been asked a question—an impertinent, embarrassing question. _Why did you linger there … for so long?_ Oh god he didn’t want to answer that. Didn’t want to face this right now, or ever. He had thought he was well hidden, that the man wasn’t even aware of anything outside his passionate dance.

John felt panic building, but directly on the heels of that rare sensation, was a more familiar one: anger. The nerve of this guy, coming to _his_ house, spying on him deliberately, and then questioning _him_ like he had the right. He couldn’t let Sherlock get to him, he was a soldier for god’s sake! He would not be this easily frightened by a civilian. John leveled a no-nonsense look directly into Sherlock’s eyes without flinching and silently congratulated himself for finding the inner strength to remain outwardly calm.

“ _How_ could you possibly know all of that? I didn’t think you saw me—“

“I didn’t.” Sherlock cut him off with an impatient wave of his hand. “The indentations you left in the dirt told me everything I needed to know.” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “But you’re ignoring my questions. What are you hiding, John? What made you linger at that window, watching me in secret? Clearly you possess strong moral principles, as evidenced by your own conscience condemning you presently, yet you opted to stay despite all of that. Why?”

Damn this man was unrelenting, and now there was even a hint of a smile on his lips, causing John’s anger to go full boil, taking precedence over all other emotions.

John burned a glare at Sherlock through heavy lidded eyes in defiance, and Sherlock, to his credit, held the harsh look without even blinking. With squared shoulders and a puffed out chest, John stood to his full height, refusing to be intimidated by the man towering over him. John’s hands clenched and unclenched as he took deep, measured breaths. He was in control dammit, despite his muddled heart and guilty conscience. The silence all around them was palpable, as though the night itself waited breathlessly to see how this would pan out. John forced himself into stillness, to not betray the battle warring within him between his own bloody desires, frustrated anger, and yes, fear.

 _Fear_. Not of any physical harm, but fear of a softer and more subtle _alluring_ danger that his heart seemed to be in. Sherlock made him feel things, _want_ things. Things that he simply couldn’t have. Even now, as angry as John was at the man’s impudence, he was also fighting a very real urge kiss him senseless, to wipe that haughty look off his face by slowly making love to him, to lick every inch of his skin. To let his mouth, lips and tongue convey what words could not. He wanted to sleep with him. John thought very much that he’d also like to wake up next to him. And that was the problem. Because, despite his reputation, John had a bad habit of giving his heart right along with his body. And that was very dangerous.

For as close as Sherlock was suddenly and unexpectedly _right now_ , in any moment he would be gone, out of John’s reach. John knew it was best to remember that, to resist the pull of his body, to stomp down on the hope his foolish heart flirted with, to not let any weakness show. So John welcomed the anger, the only armour he had, and it gave him courage to open his mouth. His voice was rough as gravel, and he spoke through clenched teeth, low and dark.

“I broke no law. And you were practically flaunting yourself all over the place, in a partially constructed building with a hundred empty windows in broad day. I simply happened by and stopped … momentarily … just an innocent bystander, having a look. But it appears to me—” And here John’s careful control slipped as his blood ran hot and eyes flashed fierce. “—that you were here just now, _deliberately_ spying on me. Standing on my bins to have a better view no less. Have _you_ no shame?” John bravely poked Sherlock in the chest as he crowded him further. “Tell me, since I lack your second sight, how long were _you_ standing there looking in? What did you see, or should I say, what didn’t you see?”

John was practically growling as he tilted his head up so they were nose to nose. John quietly relished the look of surprise on Sherlock’s face, as well as the attractive blush spreading from his cheeks to his neck. Good. Payback time. Yet the man didn’t move back or seem daunted in the least; in fact, he seemed to be enjoying John’s reaction. John repressed a dark chuckle. Oh no, he was not getting away with this. John was determined to win this little battle. But despite his earlier resolve to appear unaffected, he was now breathing heavy, chest heaving, and he realised with a start that they were breathing in the same air, both their mouths open and gasping. Well, at least John wasn’t the only one affected.

Suddenly Sherlock groaned, closing his eyes and whispering _John_ softly to himself, the sound of his name whispered so tenderly was like a caress, and it was so unexpected that John’s eyes widened in shock as he felt a fresh jolt arousal. And oh how it made his heart ache. The next words out of Sherlock’s lips seeped into John’s flesh like a hot knife through butter, penetrating all his defences without the slightest effort, enflaming his desperate need.

“I … I saw everything. _E v e r y t h i n g_.”

Sherlock spoke that last word slowly, his deep voice rumbling it out as his pale eyes blinked back open, focusing on John like laser beams. _That voice_. It was like sex and John wanted to hear it again, saying his name over and over as he took the man apart. A moan escaped his lips and John realised it was all over. He stumbled backwards, but there was no getting away from this unscathed. And did he even want to? Yes, YES, it was time to retreat. John made one last desperate effort to cling to his anger, the only thing he felt could possible disguise how broken he was. His voice trembled.

“You … admit it then. You deliberately spied on me in what was supposed to be the privacy of my own home.” John gave up speaking clearly. “Is that why you came? To humiliate me?” John licked his lips and his heart stuttered as he remembered what he had been caught doing. He could only look at his feet now, and as he took several deep breaths, he felt all his anger abandon him, leaving him empty. How pathetic John must look to him.

Sherlock made a surprised noise.

“What, NO! Of course not… I …” Sherlock halted, sounding confused and unsure now.

John suddenly wished they could have met under different, more ordinary circumstances. He might have tried to befriend the man, gain his approval or at the very least acceptance. And in another lifetime, before he was a broken shadow of his former self, he might have even tried to flirt with Sherlock and win his heart. He had been a confident force to be reckoned with once upon a time. Oh how the mighty have fallen. He sighed in defeat, and his voice sounded weary even in his own ears. “What do you want then?”

“John.” The voice sounded pained, contrite even, and it surprised John enough that he risked a glance back up at that face. Sherlock’s eyes were wide with sorrow (pity?) and he was clearly uncomfortable. When he spoke again it came out hesitant. “I admit I had to meet you. To see the owner of those footprints. My curiosity, once roused, must be satisfied and it … it got the better of me.” Sherlock paused and cleared his throat. “I fear I have grossly overstepped the bounds of … normal human interaction …”

At this John burst into a fit of awkward giggles.

“Normal human interaction? What, are you from outer space? Am I your first contact?”

Sherlock huffed an irritated breath.

“Of course not. It’s just that … I don’t normally do this sort of thing.”

“What sort of thing? Talk to people? Moonlight as a Peeping Tom?”

“No … apologise.”

John’s eyebrows shot all the way up into his hairline.

“Ohhh, is _that_ what you were doing? Well then, please continue.” John tried very hard not to smile, tried not to warm so easily to this odd, beautiful man despite his atrocious behaviour. But then John had to admit to himself that he was guilty as well.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but behind his annoyance John thought he could see a vulnerable man who had no idea what he was doing.

“I’m … sorry?”

John sighed and ran a hand through his hair. Not the best apology in the world, but it was still nice to hear. He hadn’t expected it at all, and the man probably only felt sorry for him. John cringed at the thought. He might as well accept it and move on from this embarrassing night and put the whole mess behind him. Or at least try to.

“Okay. Look, I forgive you, it’s fine. Let’s never mention it again, all right?”

Sherlock looked upset at this for some reason that John couldn’t understand.

“But I really do want to know.” Sherlock voice sounded plaintive and even frustrated at being denied something. His face was scrunched up into what suspiciously looked like a pout, with arms crossed. Was he dealing with a child?

John cleared his throat and braced himself.

“Okay … know what, exactly?” This couldn’t be good.

Sherlock instantly turned with hopeful excitement back in his voice.

“Why are you no longer limping? I don’t understand and I _have_ to know, John.”

 _Oh my god._ John groaned inwardly. He was pretty sure he didn’t have an answer to that, and his mind reeled for some sort of explanation that could possibly make sense _and_ avoid deeply embarrassing himself unto death.

“You are incorrigible! Look, if you want a whole bloody explanation, why don’t we have a seat inside and enjoy a cuppa while we’re at it. We’ve been standing out in the chilly night long enough.” John turned and marched into the kitchen without a backward glance, cursing under his breath that he was agreeing to this. What the hell was he going to even say? Any response John could imagine sounded preposterous: _Well, yeah, I secretly ogled your graceful, delectable body earlier for an inordinately long time, all the while wishing I could crawl through the window and ravish you right then and there on that church floor and now I’m cured! Hallelujah._

John chuckled and got out two cups and some cream. Unbelievable, really. How had his life become so ridiculous? Wasn’t the country supposed to be boring? God, it was anything but that. And what should he do? Pretend to start limping again? Deny everything? Okay it was a little late for _that_. Maybe he could distract the man from the topic by rambling about other things. He could start questioning him about his own life, his dancing, or why he was even out here all alone. There was so much John wanted to know, was hungry to learn. As John waited for the water to boil, he glanced into main room and watched Sherlock slowly walking around, opening books and studying pictures, snooping into everything in sight, though there wasn’t much, sparse as it was. It warmed his heart to see him making himself at home, in _John’s_ home. The man was in his house, wanted to be there it seemed. How did he get so lucky?

John wanted to pinch himself to see if he was really awake. Could he have fallen asleep in that old, shabby chair? Or did magic yet exist in the world and the mere, heady thought of this man had conjured him up?

When he came back in with two steaming cups, Sherlock had already helped himself to John’s chair, and now seemed to be deep in thought, his hands steepled under his chin. John wondered what the man could be so focused about, and before John knew it, he was standing there staring in wonder at Sherlock’s perfect features. After several moments, he quietly set Sherlock’s cup down on the end table and then decided to build a small fire to take the chill off. John gathered a few small pieces of wood outside, along with some kindling and old newspapers, and soon they had a nice, warm fire going. John stood with a satisfied smile. This place had never more felt like home than at this moment, and John hoped it was simply the fire’s presence that made it that way.

He turned and gingerly sat down, a bit nervous as he sipped his tea, wondering if he should break the silence when Sherlock suddenly spoke, his deep voice startling John.

“You’re also a doctor. An army doctor with a psychosomatic limp, according to your therapist. How fascinating.”

John’s eyes were wide once more and he couldn’t help but choke out a laugh.

“Seriously, how do you know these things?”

“I don’t know, I observe.” His voice sounded put out, but there was a hint of a smile around Sherlock’s eyes that thrilled John ridiculously so. “You have medical texts that are a bit technical for a casual reader, plus there’s a black satchel tucked away under your bed, obviously your medical bag. Even now you keep it close as old habits die hard. Oh don’t look so alarmed, I didn’t actually go into your bedroom, but the door is cracked open and I glanced in. Not that there’s much to see in there.” Sherlock finally stopped talking and sipped his tea while John cleared his throat in embarrassment.

“Okay. That was brilliant …” John paused and smiled as Sherlock practically glowed under the praise. John had a lot more where that came from, but he forced himself to stay on topic. “How did you know I have a therapist?”

Sherlock sighed wearily.

“John, of course you have a therapist.” Sherlock glanced down at his leg before continuing. “Was it her idea to move out into the country? Clearly you hate it here. Or are you simply pursuing the beauty of nature in the footsteps of Thoreau?”

John was instantly alarmed and looked around wildly for that foolish bit of poetry he had written earlier about this very man. Shit shit _SHIT_. He was being obvious but he didn’t care. He would fall apart from humiliation if Sherlock saw that. After a few moments of frantic scanning of the room, John relaxed a bit. It was nowhere in sight. He must have folded it into one of his books. The chances of the man opening the exact book and finding it in the short amount of time that it took for him to make tea was slim to none. He was safe. But he desperately needed to change the topic. This whole conversation was focused on him, and he didn’t like it. He was so boring and ordinary, it was a waste of time when they could be discussing _Sherlock_. Besides, John didn’t like to talk about himself. He was the opposite of a sharer. There had to be a way of diverting the conversation to safer areas.

Before thinking too much, he blurted out, “How long have you danced?”

Sherlock smiled slowly, a hint of mischief in his eyes.

“You like my dancing. Was it I that cured you?”

That was it, the last straw. All patience, gone. John wanted to wipe that smirk off his face and replace it with something much less dignified.

“Look, enough, alright?” John took a deep, exasperated breath and looked down a moment before continuing. “Yes, I saw you dancing. Yes, I stopped to watch you instead of continuing on my way, and for that, I am sorry. Really.” John looked up in time to see the triumphant look Sherlock’s face. John glared and huffed at him. “Oh shut up. For the record, I have never done that before, watched someone like that. Never! I’m not even sure why I did it this time…” John halted and lost himself in the man’s eyes for a moment. He realised what he just said wasn’t quite true. He knew exactly why he couldn’t look away. It was the same reason that drew his eyes to the man even now: he couldn’t _not_ look at him. Wild horses couldn’t stop him from drinking the man in as much as he could while he was still here in front of him, and all at once, John wanted to tell him that. His heart beat wildly as he mentally prepared to let Sherlock know how affected he was by his dancing. This was the moment of truth, no going back now.

“Your dancing … it was amazing. No, I mean … Shit. It was so …” John sighed in frustration and ran a hand over his face as he tried to gather his thoughts. He wanted so desperately to put into words all of the emotions still coursing through him, but it felt impossible. He was terrible at this sort of thing, but he knew that ‘amazing’ didn’t cut it. John looked back into Sherlock’s eyes, took a deep breath before simply saying, “It was perfect. I have never seen anything so … so … moving, before. I couldn’t look away. I’m serious, it was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, and … well maybe that means I need to get out more I don’t know.” John chuckled awkwardly at his own lame joke before licking his lips and focusing back on the silent man in front of him. “It did something to me. I don’t understand, but I walked away changed. There, happy now?”

Sherlock certainly did not look happy. He even sat back in shock when John attempted to describe his dancing. He remained utterly speechless.

“What? Does this surprise you? Really?” John was distracted from wishing the earth to swallow him up by Sherlock’s strange behaviour. The change that had come over the man was remarkable. He looked very small and vulnerable all of a sudden, and John was at a loss as to why. Sherlock hadn’t so much as flinched when John got angry, but as soon as he tried to speak truthfully about how incredible John thought he was, Sherlock acted almost wounded. Did he think John was mocking him or insincere?

“Sherlock? What’s wrong?” John put down his tea and leaned closer, concern all over his face. He resisted the urge to reach out and comfort the man in some way. He didn’t want to over step his bounds. But could it be he didn’t know how arresting his movements were? Did he seriously not realise? How could he not know how incredible he was? It was hard to believe, but the look that flashed across Sherlock’s face fairly screamed insecurity and self-doubt, and it made John bolder. Sherlock had to know! It was the least John could do. He simply could not live in a world where the most fascinating man he had met, _ever_ , didn’t know how amazing he was. Well, John would make him know it, if it took all night, or even the rest of his life.

“You’re beautiful.”

The words were out of John’s mouth before he had a chance to rethink this new plan of action. Again, his words had a profound effect on Sherlock, he seemed to struggle between incredulity, utter shock and pain at the words. John couldn’t stop himself from approaching him slowly, like a wounded, wild animal. He crouched down in front of Sherlock’s chair, and looked up at him worriedly. The words kept coming now, like water gushing out of a geyser that had been dormant for years. John let them out in a gentle whisper.

“Really. You took my breath away earlier, and I just couldn’t take my eyes off you.” John allowed a tender smile to play at his lips. “Are you really so surprised? You, who can look at me and see my whole life. Can you not see yourself at all?” John cocked his head, and just looked at the man calmly.

Sherlock appeared to be sweating now. He also seemed to be on the verge of bolting at any moment. John felt himself deflating at bit now that he had gotten those words off his chest. He supposed there wasn’t anything else he could do or say at this point, if the man just wanted to leave. It would be for the best anyway. It wasn’t like his opinion was worth anything. He didn’t know anything about dancing anyway. John sighed and started to stand, giving up on the situation as hopeless. It was then that he finally heard Sherlock speak again.

“John.” Sherlock’s voice sounded rough and cracked as he said John’s name, and he cleared his throat. “John … what you saw earlier. It wasn’t meant to be seen by anyone.” Sherlock looked down as though ashamed. “It wasn’t even a dance, and it certainly wasn’t ‘beautiful’ as you so casually described it.”

“Well, whatever it was, Sherlock, it was utterly brilliant. You have no reason to be embarrassed by it. But, please forgive me for intruding on your private dance?” John lay a comforting hand on Sherlock’s arm without thinking and gasped when he realised the man was trembling.

“Oh my god, are you cold? Here, let me get you a blanket. I’ll put the kettle back on and you can have some more tea before you return home.”

Before John could walk away, Sherlock’s hand shot out and gripped his arm. John was too stunned to move or say anything, as he watched Sherlock slowly stand, large eyes fixed steadily on him.

“I don’t want a blanket.” Sherlock drew close to John again, but this time was different and John inhaled sharply. Gone were all the smirks and the antagonistic behaviour from earlier. This was pure desire, and John could hardly breathe in the face of it.

His earlier imaginings had failed to recall the pale smoothness of his skin or capture the sweet smell of his hair. It did not comprehend the rumble that was his voice, the deep resonance of which made John want to come right there on the spot. John became achingly aware that Sherlock’s height aligned his delectable neck perfectly with John’s mouth, as though destiny had always meant for his lips to lavish their affection there. John found himself leaning towards him, desperate to close that small gap.

Sherlock spoke into the heady silence, his voice now possessing a husky quality that John had not noticed before.

“You asked me earlier what I wanted, John. Is it not obvious? Even to you.”

John chose to ignore that last part in favour of staring at his lips, which until now had seemed completely off limits. They looked silky soft and were now opening, with a pink tongue flicking out a shy hello. Fuck it all. John could only resist so much, and this was temptation beyond his capabilities to deny. He glanced briefly back up at Sherlock, but all he saw there was naked hunger. The same hunger that was now pulsing through John’s veins. John groaned as he finally closed the distance, capturing that warm mouth firmly with his own.


End file.
